


Sleeping, Waking

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: The Man Who Waits [3]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-04-26 07:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14397606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: Souls are not her domain, and neither are births. But this particular soul is hers; has always been, through lives and ages, always hers, and thus she is the one who decides where it goes.She is the goddess of law, but everyone – other gods included – often forget that the universe is built upon laws. Nature has laws, too, so Woedica can bend and twist them as she desires.(Pre-Awakening Thaos and his parents.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rannadylin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rannadylin/gifts), [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).



I

Souls are not her domain, and neither are births. But this particular soul is hers; has always been, through lives and ages, always hers, the first offering she was given before she even became a goddess, and thus she is the one who decides where it goes.

It is not too difficult to find a couple of faithful who dream of a child – first, or just another – but cannot have one. Usually, this would be Hylea’s responsibility, to answer or ignore such prayers – but she can do that, too, if so she wishes. She is the goddess of law, but everyone – other gods included – often forget that the universe is built upon laws. Nature has laws, too, so Woedica can bend and twist them as she desires.

This is what makes her the queen, this is the ultimate power – one that is not noticed, invisible. After all, it is impossible to take away something that cannot be seen.

* * *

 

II

“It’s late.” She strokes the boy’s hair. “You should sleep.”

“Tell me a story?” he asks, eyes gleaming with excitement and curiosity.

Her friends laugh every time they see her son, joking that her life is so perfectly planned she even has a son whose eyes match her adra jewellery. It is true; they look like adra, both reflecting light and lit up from within, and deep like eternity itself. There are secrets hiding there, ones the boy cannot even guess yet. For now, he likes the tales of saints and heroes, of priests and missionaries of old.

Emblyn knows her son does not belong to her and never will; he is a gift, a miracle child, a blessing from Woedica. Just a guest in this house, before the goddess will take him away. But perhaps the anxiety of counting every year, of watching her son growing up and hearing the rustle of sand in an hourglass every time she looks – perhaps this is preferable to the heartbreak of never having children at all.

“Mum?” The boy is staring at her, almost pleadingly, but with a small smile. He knows she will cave in. She always does.

She gave birth to him, but he is a borrowed child, and it seems a waste to send him to sleep when she can steal a few moments more. It is selfish. But that is a sin Woedica can forgive.

“All right.” She ruffles his hair and plants a kiss on the top of his head. He smells of warmth, like all children do; that special scent of both incomprehensible love and unimaginable pain. “Now listen. Once upon a time, in ancient Engwith, there was a priest...”

* * *

 

III

“It’s a feast day! Everyone will be...”

“And you would be, too, if you finished your studies for today.” Gwalther does not raise his voice; he does not have to. He is a judge, and has dealt with much more troublesome people than his adolescent son. “You can still participate in the celebrations tomorrow. If you do your homework.”

“I’m tired,” the boy protests. “I’m sure Woedica wouldn’t want her future priest to...”

Gwalther gives his son a look that makes the boy break off and take a step back. “The first thing about serving Woedica, son,” he says quietly, calmly and without emotion, and the words sound all the darker for it, “is that you have to learn obedience.”

* * *

 

IV

He has seen the depictions of Woedica countless times, but for some reason, they always seem wrong. This is how the queen is traditionally portrayed, and yet is feels... not false, not exactly, but not true, either. Like a mask.

With a sigh, he resumes cleaning up the altar. His father would not be happy if the priests told him he failed in his duties as an acolyte. Following orders is not as difficult as it seemed at first; perhaps he was not born to kneel, but he can bow when necessary easily enough.

There is a strange sound, like a faraway peal of laughter. It reminds him of adra chimes and... resounds in his soul, moves something deep within him. There is a moment of weightlessness and confusion, like that between waking and sleeping, when he does not slumber but is not awake yet, either...

When he moves, the candlelight dances across the statue’s face, and for a blink of an eye, Woedica looks younger; a striking, regal woman, very beautiful even though her countenance is cold. A brief thought crosses his mind, one that surely must be a sin, but the shadows trembling on the goddess’ adra face make it seem she is smiling rather than reproaching.

In a heartbeat, the impression is gone, and he is once again left in an empty chapel, and nothing is out of the ordinary.

He half-closes his eyes, to the point where he can still see shapes and outlines, but the details are blurred; it makes her face seem younger again. For a few breaths, he hesitates, but the bright laughter still echoes in his soul, and something compels him to...

Slowly, he kneels down on the stone floor and bows his head in utmost respect. “You called me, my Queen?” he whispers.

The very air in the chamber shifts and changes, as if suddenly charged with lightning. There is a quiet rustle of fabric, and then a warm hand touches his hair. The strangest thing of all is that it does not even surprise him.

“Yes,” replies a clear, imperious voice. “Yes, Thaos, I did.”


	2. Chapter 2

V

The chamber is filled with light and incense smoke, and there are jewels gleaming on almost every robe and gown – as if the chapel has turned into Woedica’s court for one evening. Thaos is standing next to his parents, listening to congratulations and good wishes, and replying politely, but not really hearing the words. There is another voice, just at the edge of his thoughts – a soft whisper, more like the murmur of a stream than coherent speech. Woedica is calling.

He moves, and his mother’s attention instantly shifts onto him. Her eyes are shining – with pride, yes, but also with barely-contained tears.

“You were born for this,” she says quietly, with a forced smile. Her tone is warm and sweet, as always when she is talking to him, but the underlying thoughts are bitter and full of sorrow. He has never been hers, not truly, and she has never forgotten that, not even for a while – a terrible thing for a mother to endure, he can see that plainly in her soul.

There is so much she is not telling him – that she would like him to have a family; to find companionship, if not love; to live a simple, peaceful life and be content. Except that, in such a life, he never would. She knows that, even if she does not understand, and that is why she keeps silent.

It would be easier for her if he was just an ordinary priest, allowed to marry and have children. But the high priest belongs solely to his goddess, and thus he cannot swear himself to anyone else; he would not want to, even if he could. What others do not comprehend is that he will never be alone.

“Yes.” Thaos nods at his mother. “It is time,” he adds. He would rather not remind her that this is a farewell; Emblyn would never forgive him if she lost composure in public.

She takes his face in her hands and kisses his forehead, whispering a blessing. His father does the same a moment later; solemn, but not troubled by sadness.

“You know your way now.” Just as Gwalther has always known his.

“Yes.” Thaos looks into his father’s eyes; so very similar and yet so different from that first father he remembers. “Yes, now I do.”

Emblyn hides her palms in the folds of her gown, to keep herself from grasping his hand. “May the gods watch over you, son.”

“Worry not, my heart.” Gwalther puts an arm around his wife. “They will.”

Thaos looks at them one last time, turns away and walks into the inner sanctum. The door closes behind him with a quiet thud as he stops in the middle of the chamber, empty save for a few candles and a human-sized statue of the goddess. Slowly, he kneels, bowing his head, ready for the awaiting vigil.

Priests are usually ordained by senior clergy. But the high priest of Woedica is anointed by the Queen herself.

There is a rustle of fabric, and a slender hand touches his head.

“She hears the oath thou doth speak at her altar.” Woedica’s clear voice is just loud enough for all the faithful gathered behind the door to hear. Then she leans down to whisper into his ear; her warm breath ghosting over his skin is almost enough to send a shiver down his spine. “Speak your oath, my favourite.”

Thaos closes his eyes. “Yes, my Queen.” This is it; just three simple words. But no beautiful phrases could express it better than this – an echo, a reflection; a promise that he will always answer her this way and follow her every command.

* * *

 

 VI

Thaos finishes the burial prayers and falls silent. His mother is standing nearby, pale narrow hands resting on the edges of the open stone sarcophagus. Her face is veiled; an old custom, one that Emblyn would not follow if not for the wish to hide that she has been crying.

“You should rest,” he whispers under his breath. She is tired, and it is his duty to care for her, now that her husband is gone.

His mother nods slightly, but does not move. Of course. People would talk if she did not sit vigil, because what proper wife would ever refuse to do that?

Just as they will talk that he did not visit when his father was ill, that he did not say farewell. But he will be forgiven that transgression; he is the high priest, and therefore it is not his decision where to go, but his goddess’. Some already whisper that he should have been there, that it is a child’s duty to do at least that much, but he ignores them. Besides, he knows his father did not mind.

Their relationship was troubled when he was an adolescent, and trying to find ways to rebel, as all young do. But later, just on the verge of adulthood, when Thaos Awakened, it changed almost overnight. They did not talk overly much, even after that, but while before they often found it difficult to communicate and find common ground, later it was because they simply had no need for words. Gwalther was a judge and a devout Woedican, the very embodiment of impartial justice, well aware of the meaning of duty and necessity. Concepts that were not easy to comprehend for a boy, but from the perspective of a man who has lived for ages, they are all too familiar; the very foundation stone of Thaos’ mission.

If Gwalther was still alive and they talked, Thaos could say he learned obedience – it came back with the memories. And his father might mention that he is glad; he was, in the end. But they would not need to talk at all. Because while his mother has always tried to support him, his father did simply understand.

* * *

 

VII

When his father was dying, Thaos was busy elsewhere, far from home, doing Woedica’s will. Always following his goddess’ words with obedience; really, that would make his father proud.

But now is a peaceful time of waiting and only simple priesthood duties, and he is free to travel home. It is only just that he repaid the effort put into his upbringing, and the obligations of a son are something he should and does fulfil if he can, for those too are a form of law. But there is more – it is his responsibility as the high priest to reward the faithful for their loyal service. And few have served as faithfully as his parents.

So he will assure his mother of Woedica’s blessings. He is no longer able to look at her with such innocence she longs to see in his eyes – ah, she understands, but wishes for that all the same – but he will be able to honestly tell her they are in the goddess’ good graces. He will also never mention that the price for having been blessed by the Queen is having to bear that burden. That is something his mother does not need to be aware of; it is enough that he knows, better than most.

When he enters his mother’s room, she smiles; her face instantly brightens, and for a moment, she looks like in his memories, when she would sit beside him and tell him stories. This is, perhaps, the best reward she could be given – seeing those tales come to life, seeing her son do what he was destined to. She can see the pride and dignity, can see his benevolent smile, and thinks he is happy.

“It’s good...” She tries to sit up, but falls back onto the pillows. Her face pales even more, but her smile never falters. “It’s good to see you.”

Thaos blesses the house, the room, even the sickbed, puts his hand on her head – as she used to put hers on his hair – and murmurs a prayer. And then, having welcome her as the high priest he is, he takes off the headdress – he put his ceremonial vestments on, because his mother has always liked the signs of status – and then sits beside her on the edge of the mattress and takes her frail hand in his.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” he says, with a small smile.

She chuckles. “Flatterer.”

“No; I mean it.” Thaos shakes his head. “Your soul is the same.”

Her eyes darken for a moment at this reminder of his mission, and the corner of her mouth trembles. “Are you happy?” she asks in a whisper, as if afraid Woedica could hear.

“I have found my place in life.” He lightly squeezes her hand and smiles.

She reaches up to touch his cheek. “I’m glad.” Her eyelids flutter and close, as if they were too heavy; she blinks rapidly and opens her eyes again. “If you’re at peace, then I can be, too.”

Instead of answering, Thaos leans down, lifts his mother gently and helps her sit, and lets her hug him. She strokes his hair.

“You grew up. I’m so proud...” There is a quiet sniffle, just one. Even sick, Emblyn is still a haughty noble lady, and would never let anyone witness her cry, not even her own child. “My boy. My little boy.” Then she starts coughing, and he has to help her lie down again. She smiles at him. “Tell me a story?”

He leans and kisses her forehead; a mirror image of their memories from his childhood, one she will instantly recognise. The only proper reply to her question.

Then he straightens and takes her hand in his again. “Not so long ago, in modern Engwith, there was a priest...”


End file.
